


A Good King

by elizabethofyork



Series: My Golden Prince [1]
Category: The White Queen (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Historical AU, Mother/Son platonic bonding, etc. - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethofyork/pseuds/elizabethofyork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Henry VII dies in 1503 instead of Elizabeth of York, and Henry VIII is made king at eleven years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good King

The queen pauses her prayers to note the tolling of the bells and count them, curious to know the time. She has been kneeling in the royal chapel for hours, determined not to leave until she is satisfied she has completed her most important task; to convince God to spare her husband, the king, so that the reign of England will not fall on the spare shoulders of an eleven-year-old boy, dear to her though he may be. _My golden prince_ , she thinks fondly, allowing a brief smile to cross her lips. _My Henry._

When the chimes of the bells exceed twelve, Elizabeth knows her husband Henry is dead.

For a moment, everything becomes surreal, detached, as if her mind has gone far away and left her body behind. _Well, that’s that, then_ , she thinks, and then rises, paying no mind to the complaints of her aching knees and fingers. Her hand does not shake as she crosses herself and kisses her rosary one final time, before bowing to the altar and turning on her heel. Later, there will be time to weep and mourn, and say yet more prayers: prayers for the salvation of his soul instead of the preservation of his body. Now, however, she will serve her family and God better by attending to more earthly matters.

When the queen exits the chapel, there is a messenger waiting for her, clad all in black and shifting nervously from foot to foot, there to tell her what she already knows. She lets him do what he came to do, though, if only to know how exactly her husband died; it seems that the consumption that had stricken him when he received news of their son Arthur’s death had finally claimed his life. She nods solemnly and bids the messenger summon her son, Prince Henry, the new king. They will need to find comfort in each other, she knows; neither of them can bear to grieve in solitude.

Prince Henry arrives a short while later, escorted by his grandmother. Lady Margaret Beaufort is as white as bone, shaking in her habit like a leaf in the wind. It is this sight, her proud mother-in-law who has never bowed her head to anyone but God and the king, now trembling and barely holding back tears, that melts some of the iciness that has gripped Elizabeth since she realized her husband was dead. Knowing how Lady Margaret is not fond of embraces, Elizabeth merely takes her hand and holds it tightly, hoping to convey all the sorrow and sympathy she feels for her at this moment. By the strength of Lady Margaret’s responding squeeze, the queen knows the gesture is not wasted.

“I came to escort the king’s Grace to you, but now I must take my leave, to oversee preparations for the late king’s burial.” The last word is stuttered, as if reluctant to leave Lady Margaret’s mouth, confirmation that her only son is gone. She curtsies stiffly to her daughter-in-law, and plants a quick kiss on the top of her grandson’s jewel-studded cap before turning away to brave London in February once more. Most of the guard she brought with her follows suit, seeing no need to linger when the queen has enough men to keep her and her son safe, but a couple remain, taking up on both sides of the door. As she watches the Countess of Richmond leave, Elizabeth feels a pang of grief at the thought of losing an only child. She thinks that perhaps it would be like losing Margaret, Henry, and Mary all in one night. Her stomach turns over at the thought.

The sensation of having her skirt pulled brings the queen back to herself, and she looks down at her son. This has always been her and Henry’s signal for her to pick him up, but he is a boy of eleven, twelve come summer, and so she merely cocks an eyebrow in amused but firm refusal. Seeing his face fall, Elizabeth immediately swoops down and takes him in a hug so tight she fears it will break the both of them. Henry hugs her back, and it is not long before the dampness of his tears stains her shoulder. Tears prick at Elizabeth’s own eyes, and she holds him as they grieve for the man they have lost, in turns beloved and feared by them both.

When she at last breaks the hug, the queen crouches down so as to talk eye-to-eye with her son. Henry has inherited the good looks that blessed his grandfather, Edward IV, and most of the York brood. Her reddish-gold curls but her husband’s clear blue eyes, along with a hooked nose that gives his profile a Roman air, a nose she nuzzles presently to Henry’s delight. Her guard does not balk at such affectionate behavior between royals in public; the queen’s fondness for her second son in particular is a poorly kept secret.

“How are you, sweet? Would you like to be king, do you think?” Elizabeth brushes back her son’s hair, the length of his minority troubling her. Six years spent under the thumb of the regent and council is no way to learn to be king, but a part of her insists that her boy will take to this task with his usual keenness and cleverness despite this, like another language or science to be explored. 

“I do not like that father had to die to make it so.” Elizabeth nods: of course. “but i think, in time, I’ll make a good king. I’ll be fair and just and kind…” he trails off, biting his lip and scrunching his brow in thought. “I won’t rule right away, though, will I?”

The queen shakes her head. “No. Your father’s council will name a regent, someone to rule in your place until you come of age, most likely your grandmother, Lady Margaret. She possesses both respect and experience.” _Because, unlike me, her son allowed her the opportunity to earn them_. Elizabeth knows she should not speak ill of the dead, especially when their corpse is still warm, but her bitterness at this particular slight has been enduring and deep.

Her son nods, as if being reminded of a thorn in his side. Elizabeth bites back a laugh; of course he already knows, and of course it bothers him. He is doing what both he and his sisters have done since childhood: trying to get a different answer from a parent when they’ve received an unsatisfactory one from the other.

“You’ll help me, though, won’t you?” Henry’s eyes are full of apprehension mixed with excitement. “When I’m old enough, I mean. You’ll help me be a good king? I won’t be alone?”

Elizabeth lays a kiss on her son’s forehead, feeling tears of pride rising up to join the tears of sorrow. “You’re never alone, my dear, and I’ll always help you. always.”


End file.
